


Prepare For Glory

by Hectopascal



Category: 300 (2006)
Genre: Author Laughs At Historical Accuracy, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Somewhat Less Than Typical Actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet for the first time during the agoge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prepare For Glory

They meet for the first time during the _agoge_.

There can be no friendship in this time, or any alliance in even the loosest sense of the word.

It is everyone for himself, no holds barred, a free for all because this is a test to prove their worth. The penalty for failure is unthinkable and they all know it. They must fight, must be devoted to victory above all.

They must be willing to bite and scratch and drag the others to the ground, to strike without mercy at weakness, to step over the bodies of those who may have formerly been friends in childhood.

The one known as Stelios hits Ónoma first, a blow he doesn’t see coming that digs into his stomach and steals his wind like a thief.

His head spins, dizzy suddenly because it feels like his lungs have collapsed inward, but he doesn’t allow it to be a distraction. He refuses to fall and shame his father and himself.

He hunches over and gasps loudly, only part for the effect. Ónoma makes like the blow was more debilitating than it really was, pretends his ability to swallow pain and use it as a weapon is all but nonexistent.

It isn’t.

Trickery is not supposed to be a tool for the common Spartan.

In children it is called mischief or guile and is treated with covered smiles and amused indulgence. In leaders it is called a gift for strategy and cleverness.

Ónoma is neither. He is to be a soldier if he is worthy.

(In his heart, he fears he is not.)

Soldiers are meant to follow orders loyally, to fight the enemy and protect the country and die with honor.

They are not supposed to fake, lie, or manipulate like some scum-tongued councilman. They are especially not supposed to _trick_.

Maybe that is why his father is always so disappointed in him, why nothing he does is ever, will ever be, good enough. Maybe he sees the ugly soul his son tries desperately every day to hide.

Hiding. It may as well be cowardice. Yet another unfavorable quality.

But to fail the _agoge_ will be a thousand times worse than revealing his secret shame and he knows it.

The second Stelios catches him with his guard down he makes up his mind because if he is to be a failure then at least he will be a decisive one.

So Ónoma lets out a helpless, quiet sound. It’s _disgusting_ and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but it works as he knew it would.

Stelios lunges forward to crush him and his perceived weakness ( _as anyone would_ , his mind sneers, _a **real** Spartan would never stoop to this_ ) and he’s already caught, he just doesn’t know it yet.

Ónoma doesn’t unfold from his bent position, just ducks lower, takes a shuffling step forward, and straightens himself up fast.

Stelios overextends, his eyes going wide with comical surprise and maybe Ónoma will laugh about that later when his face isn’t set in grim lines so deep they may as well be carved there.

Ónoma catches Stelios’ arm in a hold his father taught him and shifts their weight, shoves Stelios off balance, and then hoists the taller boy over his hip in a fluid throw.

Stelios hits the ground on his back and wheezes. Ónoma slams his knee into Stelios’ belly a second later and Stelios gags, a mixture of blood and spittle spraying from his mouth.

Ónoma gives Stelios no chance to recover, only hits him across the face with an openhanded smack his fierce mother had shown him one day when his father was too busy to train and she declared herself an acceptable substitute.

The smack, coupled with fingers curled into claws, is incredibly painful. It draws blood and bruises and welts just as easily as a punch but leaves an ache that lingers for days.

Stelios’ head bounces against the packed dirt, narrowly missing a jutting rock.

Ónoma grabs for the stone—all his doubt and hesitation vanishing in the rush of battle—intent on beating it against Stelios’ skull until he’s _sure_ Stelios won’t be getting up any time soon.

But then another boy tackles him from behind and they roll away from Stelios’ still body (and the rock) in a raging, seething, kicking jumble of sweaty limbs.

Ónoma is angry and it is absolutely _glorious_ , like his very blood has been set aflame and nothing hurts.

This is what a Spartan is meant to be. He wishes that he could feel like this all the time, so right, like he belongs.

Stelios is forgotten and the _agoge_ goes on. And on.

 

\---

 

Stelios isn’t down for good.

Ónoma regrets missing his chance to achieve this greatly.

He regrets it still more when Stelios tracks him down later and gets him in a submission hold while giving his ribs a pounding the like of which they’ve never seen before.

He can’t bring himself to stand tall, not even when a wooden bar cracks across his shins and neck, for two days.

In those two days he fights more than he has in the past two weeks combined, all of them coming after the weakest in the bunch like the predators they so want to be. He doesn’t buckle under the pressure, even though each and every strike that touches his abdomen makes him feel like dying.

Stelios watches with satisfied eyes and Ónoma bares bloody teeth at him. Stelios waves back cheerfully.

Ónoma may hate Stelios, just a little.

He hates him a bit less when, the next time they fight, he gets to plant an elbow in Stelios’ face and he has to walk around for a lot longer than two days while people laugh at him for having both his eyes blackened.

 

\---

 

Ónoma sees Stelios again, here and there, so he knows that he hasn’t failed out or been killed or both.

He is there when Stelios is given the lash for stealing.

(They all steal. They have to, that’s the point, if they want to survive. Guilt is the first thing to go. They are all beaten at some time and become better at not getting caught at it.)

Stelios’ gaze finds him and he grins madly, revealing at least three missing teeth, as his back is whipped open.

He never cries out, not once. Only grinds his teeth until the smile is more of an animalistic snarl and the skin around his eyes—green like pond scum and life—goes tight between each blow that falls.

Ónoma doesn’t know why he does it, when Stelios is finally let go and he staggers and nearly goes to his knees.

Maybe he’s impressed by the show of endurance or his curiosity is piqued by the smile or perhaps it’s something else entirely beyond his control, but Ónoma moves without thinking.

He taps the heel of his foot against the dirt.

Stelios hears the faint sound somehow over the chatter of the crowd and glances at him, eyes half shut and breathing too quickly, face so pale he may pass muster as a corpse.

Ónoma gives the smallest of nods and then tilts his chin up. Acknowledgement. Reminder. Encouragement. Support.

 _Hold your head high. Don’t let them see you hurt_.

It’s more than he should have given, which is nothing. More than anyone else would have given, also nothing.

There is not supposed to be any helping, in any form, no matter how small. If it is offered they are instructed to refuse with either dignity or violence depending on the situation.

Stelios can interpret it as pity and react badly or softness and try to capitalize on it later when it suits him.

It’s stupid. Ónoma is stupid. He had obviously not been thinking clearly, possibly not at all.

He turns and pushes out of the crowd before Stelios can react, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Ónoma grabs a small jug of milk as he goes from an abandoned vendor. The owner probably vacated to watch the show and left his son in charge, who had likely wandered off immediately after.

No one raises an alarm.

 _He’s_ not clumsy enough to get caught.

 

\---

 

It turns out, however, that he is negligent enough to get stolen from.

It’s not a pleasant discovery to make. Unexpected realizations seldom are.

Usually none of the boys bother stealing from one another, not like they have much worth taking, and content themselves with fists and other things they understand.

The returns are seldom worth it besides. The take is overshadowed by the effort involved and the risks. They have no security, but if they get nabbed by one of their own the resulting correctional action is both immediate and savage.

Some stupid son of a goat fucker evidently doesn’t know that. Some stupid son of a goat fucker will _learn_ when Ónoma is through with him.

Ónoma comes back to the hollow he’s been curled up in for the past three days—too long, he knows—but it’s nice and his favorite by far. It’s dry and shelters him from the wind and has the bonus of concealing his form from the casual observer. It really is a prime spot.

It’s also empty of the stolen jug he’s been using to store water, his (also stolen) half-loaf of bread, and the rags he’d pulled from the trash to line the floor and make it more comfortable to sleep on.

The bread is the loss he feels most keenly. It had been fresh when he’d taken it and was still mostly soft even a day later, filling nuts and small berries baked right into it. It had smelled sublime and he hadn’t been able to resist taking it.

Ónoma stares at his empty nest, his face calm and blank as his hands flex with the repressed urge to hunt and find and _hurt_.

His anger is quiet, but intense and colored a bloody red with a fine edge of malice.

It’s directly partly at the thief, but mostly at himself for not thinking this could happen. For that alone, he knows he deserves it and will take the experience as one of the many lessons the gods intend for him to learn during this time.

Ónoma will not make this mistake again.

Better to learn it now, when all it can cost him is a dry throat and an empty belly—the bread would have fed him for at least another cycle of the sun, so he hadn’t seen the need to steal unnecessarily, _the irony_ —then later, when it may cost him his life.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t bitter.

He is.

The next time he has to fight he’s extra vicious, on the off chance his opponent is the thief. The odds are against it, but it’s remarkable how much that doesn’t bother him.

He can taste blood on his lips and he splits his knuckles anew and it feels so, so, so good.

It isn’t the best idea to fight when angry. The ideal frame of mind is tranquility tempered by ready anticipation. That’s not possible though, for any of them, and he isn’t sure he can bring himself to care either way.

Stelios favors him with a dark, knowing look, but makes no move to approach. Probably for the best.

Stelios is a dangerous opponent when he keeps his head and right now he’s dead calm. Ónoma…isn’t.

They keep fighting. More boys fall.

Ónoma and Stelios do not interact once.

It’s nice.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t find the thief, something which annoys him to no end, but he does eventually drag himself into a saner state.

Ónoma never could hang onto grudges, so he lets it go for the most part and finds a new place to sleep every night. Some are nicer than others. He does not stay at a single place more than once.

Which makes it something of a shock when he returns to his most recent hideaway and finds a bundle waiting for him, something wrapped in a sheet and then placed squarely in the center of the floor.

Ónoma considers just turning around and leaving.

It could be some sort of trap, but he always was too curious for his own good—his mother’s words—and, after a minute of suspicious squinting and a cautious sniff, he sits down, pulls it to him, and investigates.

The sheet is wrapped around a ceramic pot, the fired clay cold against his hands as he removes the lid and sets it aside.

His face scrunches in confusion as he reaches a hand in, tense with anticipation of finding something sharp or unsavory, and his fingers jab against something soft and yielding.

It’s the rags he used as bedding. He rubs the fabric between his fingers, and then lifts it to his face. Clean too.

Underneath them is a quarter of his half-loaf of bread, hard and stale but probably still decent after giving it a good chew. Ónoma sets it gently on top of the bedding and then shakes the pot.

Something rattles around and he fishes back inside. His hand comes out clutching the strangest thing of all, a slice of fruit dried into a hunk the length and width of three fingers.

Ónoma licks it. It tastes sweet as sugar and smells of sunlight.

He’s seen them before in the market, but never gone for it. They are expensive and more jealously guarded, kept away from the edges of the stalls and therefore more difficult to swipe unnoticed.

They’re kept in curious mesh bags woven of colorful strings, and always look tempting and exotic, but Ónoma is too careful to grab something he doesn’t need and risk catching a lashing.

He’s fairly certain there are seven cuts of fruit to a bag and, after feeling along the bottom of the pot, Ónoma finds five.

He puts them on the sheet in a row, side by side, staring at them with naked puzzlement for a long moment.

Then, against every instinct he’s honed during these past weeks screaming in equal parts _don’t trust it_ and _get it down while you can_ , he picks one up and takes a small bite.

Flavor explodes across his tongue and Ónoma hears a low moan. He realizes, seconds later, that he’s making the sound and, nipping at the heels of the first thought, that he couldn’t care less.

He may be biased after all this time of bland and scarcely edible food, but he thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

It goes like that—bite, chew, savor, swallow, repeat—for all five and he doesn’t regret the slightest luxurious moment of it.

The ground softened by rags and his body wrapped in the (also, surprisingly, clean) sheet, he sleeps better than he has in a week.

 

\---

 

Stelios looks particularly pleased with himself the next day and he laughs when one of the other boys, Hesperos, breaks his nose. Without pause, Stelios spits blood in Hesperos’ eyes, still chortling and kicks his knees out from under him.

The proximity of these two events is probably a coincidence.

 

\---

 

The first part of the _agoge_ is over at last.

The second one begins in less than three days.

They will still be pitted against one another, but it is more organized, as the purpose of this next exercise is to build trust.

The boys who make it this far are to be comrades in arms—assuming they don’t fail the final, most important, and also the most _lethal_ section—the next best thing to family. Brothers.

Alliances are something Ónoma is having trouble with. Unfortunate, since they are both vital and necessary for success, but he is determined to manage.

It isn’t that he doesn’t get offers, because he does.

They just aren’t for him and he is excruciatingly aware of it. Where others are chosen for their strength or speed, they look at him and see Son of the Captain, and _that_ is in no way acceptable.

If reputation, glory, is to be his then _he_ must be the one to earn it.

(There is no need for talk in the first section. Ónoma had been pathetically grateful.)

He turns them all away, as diplomatically as he can with a cold and solid ball of oil sitting heavy in his chest. As expected, he is spurned for it.

He has almost resigned himself to his failure and subsequent exile (surely one person would—but no) when out of nowhere comes Stelios.

He is sitting on a boulder as Ónoma passes by, swinging his legs casually, seemingly at complete ease.

Then Stelios’ eyes open—still the color of murky, unclean water—and he fixes Ónoma with a sharp grin.

Ónoma finds himself smiling back for no reason. As soon as he realizes he’s doing it, he stops and frowns instead.

It makes Stelios’ murder smile gape even wider.

“Stelios,” Stelios introduces himself with a nod that is friendly enough. It makes Ónoma’s skin crawl unpleasantly.

“I know,” Ónoma says shortly.

Stelios peers at him and lets the seconds trickle by as he waits to hear a name returned, but none comes.

Ónoma is silent. This is always the worst part.

“And you are—” Stelios goes on, unbothered. His lips actually form the first syllable of a word too painful to hear before Ónoma cuts him off.

“Chorís Ónoma.”

He waits for the ridicule to follow.

_Chorís Ónoma. Nameless._

Some families do it to those who commit serious crimes that cannot be bought or bled away. To declare someone nameless is to make them nothing, nobody, unless they accepted again by the head of their kin.

It is a punishment, a cruel one. Those who once knew someone made nameless pretend they do not. They will not speak to the nameless. Their eyes skip over them, as if they do not exist at all.

It is against the law for others to give name to the nameless, so the nameless must state their new status, over and over, to every person they meet.

And, occasionally, it is used as a precursor to a possible crime, to prevent one of their own from bringing stain to the family, like amputating an infected limb before it has the chance to fester and grow gangrenous.

If, say, a nameless fails the _agoge_ no one would think anything of it, but if the eldest son of the Captain were to do it, well, that is another matter entirely.

Ónoma’s family—father and mother and unborn sibling—will be disgraced by him. His father’s precautionary measures are undoubtedly justified, but it had still ached when they had come to take him away and no one had watched him go, or even said goodbye.

That is a childish thought though. And he can no longer allow himself to be a child.

Not if he wants to prove himself, beyond any qualm, to be a worthy son. And he has every intention of doing so.

This is where the rest of the boys had turned on him, when they snort a laugh or an insult and then leave without another word.

The nameless have no respect, no standing. Far surpassing slaves and just barely superseding servants, they are universally unwanted. Nobody will choose to keep a nameless around if they can help it. Bad luck.

Stelios makes a face, his nose wrinkled in disgust and Ónoma’s heart sinks a bit lower, something he hasn’t thought possible prior to this very moment.

“Chorís Ónoma, then.” Stelios says a touch testily. “I’ve seen you fight very well. Would you be willing to fight beside me?”

_What?_

“What?” Ónoma blurts before he can stop himself.

Ceremonial words. Tradition. Stelios knows about him and he still makes the request.

Stelios looks at him evenly and repeats, “Would you be willing to fight beside me?”

It’s the best thing he can possibly hear. For a shining moment there is hope and Stelios is perfect…and it’s far too good to be true.

“Why?” Ónoma demands incredulously and hates that his voice wavers a tiny bit.

Stelios narrows his eyes and propels himself smoothly off the boulder to land in front of him. He wants to take a step back, but that would be a retreat—

( _Spartans **never** retreat_ , his father’s voice says clearly in the back of his head.)

—so he scowls and brutally suppresses the urge, jutting his chin out defiantly to stare Stelios in the eye.

Stelios examines him with an unusually bright gaze, quick with intelligence, and Ónoma cannot imagine anything coming out of his mouth that would make his request believable.

“You had me on my back. It’s never happened before,” Stelios shrugs. “Makes you all right with me, name or no name.”

“Everybody ends up on their back sometime,” Ónoma protests, fighting the desire to cross his arms defensively and lose more control over the situation.

“Yes,” Stelios agrees with another of his deadly smiles. “But _you_ did it to _me_.”

“With a trick,” Ónoma says thickly through a lump in his throat that forms the second he admits his actions. “A lie.”

“I don’t care,” Stelios dismisses the shameful behavior with another shrug. “It worked. And _that’s_ what matters on the battlefield.”

Something in Ónoma’s chest loosens against his will and he clutches at it with fraying threads, trying futilely to press it tight again.

Nevermind that nobody has ever spoke thus to him, as if he were an asset instead of an abnormality. It can’t last. Stelios will go as everyone else has gone and Ónoma will fail because it is actually impossible to do this section of the _agoge_ on one’s on, but still he has to try and his own helplessness _kills him_.

“The others,” Ónoma argues with more venom than strictly necessary. “They won’t want me. I’ll be the weak link in the phalanx.”

A revolting insult to use for oneself but, disgustingly enough, true.

There has to be trust—more than that, _faith_ —or the unit ceases to function. It has to be continuous and instinctive. No one can trust a nameless in that way, someone whose own family has declared them worthless almost beyond redemption.

“Good,” Stelios sounds very pleased. Ónoma eyes him with blatant disbelief. “Seeing as there isn’t anybody else, we’ll do fine.”

“Wha—?” Ónoma sputters while Stelios watches with ill-concealed amusement. “ _Why?_ You’re one of the best, of course you have a group!”

He flushes red as Stelios barks with laughter, but his point stands. It doesn’t make any _sense_.

Stelios _is_ one of the best out of all of them, vicious when unprovoked only because after the first week people stop provoking him. He looks like he’s having the time of his life when he’s beating someone in the face until they’re choking on their own blood and blinded by helpless tears.

He’s _odd_ , certainly, but still should’ve joined up with the stronger groups as soon as humanely possible. They’d have fallen over themselves to make him welcome.

Stelios wipes his eyes and puts himself to rights. “So are you, stupid, and I want to be in a group with the one person here who took me down. Go join someone else then, I’ll only follow.”

Ónoma stares, wondering if Stelios was dropped on his head as a babe.

 _No one else will take me._ He wants to say, but doesn’t.

 _Are you out of your mind?_ He wants to demand, but doesn’t.

 _Why aren’t you repulsed by me when even my own father is?_ He thinks, but definitely does _not_ ask.

Ónoma blinks and something only he can hear cracks into dozens of pieces and he doesn’t fight the slow smile when it comes.

“Has the second section ever been won by a group of two?” he asks, as if the answer is of no particular importance.

“I don’t believe so,” Stelios replies, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“Yes,” Stelios’ answering smile is nasty, sharp, and _eager_. “There is.”

Ónoma bites his lip, hardly able to believe he’s doing this even as he does it.

“Stelios?”

He gets a curious look beneath the roiling desire for violence.

“I would be honored to die by your side. Would you be willing to fight beside mine?”

Stelios can still back out. This whole thing may have been a mean-spirited hoax and Ónoma is about to be left here, alone, and mortified for falling for it, for being so foolish to believe, to trust, for being so desperate that he’d willingly subject himself to this humiliation _again_.

But all Stelios does is look at him with honest _delight_ of all the insane things and say, “I’d be honored, brother.”

There and then, they clasp forearms. A promise.

This is where their alliance is cemented, but it is also how their friendship begins.


End file.
